The Hourglass

by Barbara Metzger

  “Olive saw him.”

  Fernell’s face lit up. “A new maid?”

  “A crow.”

  The grin faded. “That old, eh? Too bad.”

  His father said, “No, Olive is Cousin Ardeth’s tame bird.”

  Now Fernell’s eyes grew round. “A bird accused my valet?”

  “Not just any crow. Very intelligent. Talks a blue streak.”

  “Great gods, you’ve tried, convicted, and hanged my man on the word of a carrion eater?”

  “No,” Ardeth said quietly. “We have not hanged him because we have not found him. Yet.”

  “I s’pose you’re going to banish me to the village inn, eh?” He looked toward his father. “I’ll need a bit of the ready to set myself to rights.”

  Ardeth held up his hand. “You are not going anywhere until we find your man. I want you where I can see you. Do you understand?”

  “Glad not to be going out into the night. Thank you, Cuz.”

  “And your Wally Wintercross had better confirm your whereabouts.”

  “Oh, Wally’s on his way to Scotland. You’ll never find him.”

  “How convenient.”

  “Well, I don’t see what the pother is about. The countess didn’t die, did she?” He looked to see his father shaking his head no. “And Snell is gone. All’s well that ends well, eh?”

  “Until the next time someone tries to kill me or my wife. Spotford, take this sorry knave out of my sight before I am pushed too far.”

  Fernell called after him, “I say, I hear you can cure sickness. I’m bound to have the devil’s own headache in the morning. Can you do something for that?”

  “Yes, I can let you suffer.”

  —

  Fernell was not going anywhere that night, not with one of Campbell’s soldiers on guard outside his door. Ardeth went back to Genie’s room and told Miss Hadley and Marie to go to bed; he would sit up with his wife while she slept. He built up the fire—damn, would they let the poor woman freeze?—and pulled a chair closer to her bedside, staring across at her by a single candle’s glow and the fire in the hearth. Her hair had been smoothed and braided, the bedclothes changed, all signs and scents of illness taken away. She looked like a pale sleeping angel.

  He rested his chin on his fingertips, wondering if he could ever forgive himself for putting her in danger. He should have seen the peril and found her somewhere safe. Instead he’d kept her with him, for his own pleasure. What had he been doing but playing God with the female, rescuing her, rearranging her life like some kind of Pygmalion? She was no statue, though, but flesh and blood, far more than he. What right did he have to decide what was best for her?

  He’d taken her in because her plight appealed to him. He’d thought feeling protective was an important component of an honorable man. He had helped Imogene Macklin for his own sake, to meet the terms of his own wager. He’d made her a pawn.

  He deserved to rot in Hades for the rest of eternity… except.

  Except he did care about her, more than he thought himself capable of doing. He remembered his fury at the thought of someone hurting her, not because she was his wife, his possession, but because she was Genie and she was precious in her own right, precious to him. He took the ring out of his pocket, the ruby that gleamed like the red in her hair, and placed it on her finger, knowing that Genie herself was the real treasure.

  It fit. She fit in his life.

  She woke briefly, and he tried to explain why she should stay abed while she sipped a soothing tisane he’d mixed himself. He did not want her to hear of the poison from her maid or Miss Hadley, but she had to know that someone was in the kitchen watching everything being prepared, carried to her room, and put into Marie’s hands. She must not be afraid; he would find the man responsible.

  “Of course you will,” she murmured, holding his hand next to her cheek. She went back to sleep.

  —

  Campbell reported that they had searched the Keep from top to bottom—half the night it had taken, too, and all the outbuildings, the villages, and the farms. No one had seen Snell. Spotford’s reclusive sister and her maid were fast asleep, and Miss Frieda Spotford had screamed at the men through the door for waking her. She might have thrown a hairbrush, they thought, or a footstool.

  Ardeth had Campbell send riders farther afield. Near daylight a messenger came back saying that a drover had seen a man fitting Snell’s description at an inn in Upper Rutley, near where Fernell mentioned stopping for a cockfight. Was Snell out looking for the errant Fernell, or had their meeting been prearranged? Ardeth was going to find out, and he was going to drag young Spotford with him, rather than leave him behind anywhere near Genie. Richard volunteered to go with them, half to protect his brother and half to show Ardeth the countryside while they rode.

  Campbell wanted to go along, not trusting either brother. Ardeth needed him more at the Keep, guarding Genie.

  “But two of the Spotfords together, sir, they could overpower the strongest man.”

  “I doubt they are stupid enough to do me harm when everyone knows we are together. At least Richard seems to have more betwixt his ears than snuff and shoe blacking.”

  “Accidents happen.”

  “Olive will be on the watch.”

  Campbell’s scowl showed his opinion of the crow as guardian.

  Ardeth did not give Fernell time for breakfast, but let his own man get the varlet dressed. Ardeth’s man was delighted to be of use to someone who truly appreciated his efforts. He was as eager to dress the young gentleman in his embroidered finery as Fernell was to strut around in his unpaid-for apparel.

  As they rode, Richard pointed out landmarks and boundaries, fields that needed draining, an empty cottage that might be suitable for the schoolteacher, a plot of land where a school could be. Fernell pouted and nursed his sore head, with help from a silver flask.

  They found the inn at Upper Rutley. They found Snell, but they found no answers. The man was dead, killed in an attempt by another scoundrel to steal the heavy purse he’d been toting. Richard went white, Fernell puked, and Ardeth cursed.

  —

  When Genie had finally slept away her exhaustion, she awoke to see both Miss Hadley and Marie sitting alongside her bed, one sewing, one reading. Remembering why they were there, she shut her eyes again, taking the time to order her thoughts. She recalled Ardeth kissing her forehead good-bye, telling her he was going with Richard and Fernell Spotford to find the answers to his questions.

  Richard was such a pleasant gentleman, she could not harbor suspicions about him. Everyone laughed when they spoke of Fernell, affectionately calling him a charming rogue. He was always under the hatches and always flirting, they said, but no one disliked the man. And she refused to believe that Cousin Spotford had raised a coldblooded killer. Still, she did not want her husband going off with the two brothers. Ardeth had sworn he would be safe and promised to be back by nightfall with the solution to the mystery. Then they could start their married life all over again. He’d shown her the new ring, a token of his affection.

  He had not said he loved her, she thought with disappointment. She was even more disappointed that she would have to refuse him tonight. She still felt drained. Her throat was sore, her stomach was cramping, her back ached.

  Then she saw the blood.

  Chapter 27

  Genie’s screams brought Campbell rushing into the room without knocking, a wicked dagger in one hand, a pistol in the other. What he saw had him fleeing back out so fast he almost cut off his own ear.

  “Get Mrs. Newberry,” Miss Hadley shouted. The vicar’s wife had borne three girls; she ought to know what to do far better than a spinster.

  “Send for the midwife,” Marie yelled in French.

  “Get Ardeth,” Genie ordered. “I do not want anyone else. Wherever he is, bring him back. Now!”

  But Campbell had promised Lord Ardeth not to leave the countess unprotected. His lordship had not mentioned emergenc
ies like this. Thankfully, Mr. Spotford said he would go. He knew the area and knew where the men were headed. Besides, he did not want to be in the house at such a time, either.

  Spotford found his sons and the earl halfway home from Upper Rutley, with Richard praising the Newberry girls’ charms, and Fernell sulking because Ardeth had threatened to make him sing soprano if he so much as looked at any one of them.

  Spotford gave his message, explaining the “female troubles” as best an ignorant male could. He offered to trade his fresher horse with Ardeth’s, so his lordship could make better time. Ardem refused. Black Butch had plenty of stamina left, too much for Cousin Spotford to handle. He did not want another life on his hands. And Spotford’s mount was not fast enough. The winds of a cyclone would not be fast enough, but the black would have to do.

  The stallion was blowing hard when they reached the front of the Keep, enough that Ardeth dropped the reins where he was without waiting for a groom to come. He raced up the stairs two at a time, three at a time. He burst into Genie’s room, which appeared filled with weeping, hand-wringing women, and his wife on the bed, pale as the sheets.

  Genie told everyone to leave, then she held her arms up to him. “Fix it, Coryn, fix it.”

  He held her. That was all he could do. “I cannot, Genie. I wish I could, but I cannot.”

  She pounded on his chest. “You can, I know you can. You saved those men.”

  “They needed stitching. You saw that. Anyone could have done it, with time enough.”

  “You saved Peter after you said you could not cure his illness.”

  “That was sheer luck. This is different.”

  “No, it is not, and luck had nothing to do with Peter’s recovery, no, nor taking the feathers out of his room. I saw him. He was going to die, but he did not.”

  He took her fists in his hands. “Genie, be reasonable.

  I am no magician, no master of life and death. I do not even have what powers I used to. I had to give them up to be here, to be a man.”

  “To be a man?” she repeated. “What were you before, then, a boy? I do not believe you. I know you can do things other men cannot. Perhaps you pray to other gods who listen better. Then pray, damn you, pray!”

  “My prayers will not help, Genie.”

  “They will,” she insisted. “Or your esoteric education. You knew the baby was a boy—you told me so. So you must know how to save him, please!”

  “I do not, Genie. I cannot!” For all his experience, Ardeth had none with this. “It is too late, my dear. No one can help.”

  “No,” she wailed. “It cannot be.”

  “I am so sorry.”

  Her pleading turned to anger. She pushed him away. “It is because he is not your son, isn’t it?”

  Ardeth was shaken. “How could you think that? I told you I would claim the child as mine. I have been moving heaven and earth to make it legal. I was going to sign over half of my other holdings to the Spotfords so they do not challenge the birth, so he could be the next earl.”

  “No, you wanted a son of your own. Every man does.”

  “I wanted your son.”

  She was too distraught to listen. “So you killed him because he was not yours, only another scandal. What the arsenic did not accomplish, you did with your potions!”

  “I thought only about saving your life, the only way I could. And everyone knows how many conceptions do not succeed, without arsenic or its antidote. No one knows why. Oh God, Genie, I would not have harmed the infant. How could you think I would do such a thing?”

  “I do not know how you do anything! I do not understand you and I never have.” She took the ruby ring off and threw it at him. “I never asked you for diamonds and rubies. I married you for the sake of my child. Now I ask you one thing and you tell me no. Get out. Leave me alone. You are leaving soon enough anyway. Go now. I hate you!”

  He knew she did not mean that. Her grief was talking, not the woman he married. “Please listen.”

  She turned her head into the pillow, sobbing.

  He spoke quietly, but loudly enough that she could hear if she wanted to. “It was my child, too, Genie. He was not of my blood, but he was my future. I know you will not believe me now, in your sorrow, but I am so very, very sorry.”

  Her muffled cries were like that lance to his heart, bringing pain and helplessness, bringing tears to his own eyes. He slowly left her bedside, hoping she would stop him. When she did not, he went, because that was what she wanted. At least he could do that much for her.

  —

  While the countess recuperated, the earl stayed out of her sight. Marie told Ardeth she had orders to bar the door, anyway, so he did not waste his time or try to confront Genie, upsetting her further. She never left her rooms, but Miss Hadley reported she was not ill, only in a decline.

  He rode the property with Richard and studied the books with Spotty. He played billiards with Fernell to keep him from the pub, and he played his flute in long, haunting laments, sweet and sad enough to have every woman in the Keep—every woman except Genie—wiping her eyes. A few of the men reached for handkerchiefs, too, when they heard his plaintive tunes coming from the ruins of the old fortress.

  He also visited Miss Frieda Spotford in her rooms in the isolated far tower of the modern castle.

  Her maid admitted him after he had sent a note asking for an interview with both women. The maid denied knowing aught about Snell, other than that he would do anything for money. She did not admit to any familiarity beyond working in the same household, but her eyes were red-rimmed from crying. She brought Ardeth to her mistress’s sitting room door and left as soon as he was announced.

  Miss Spotford was older than her brother, and white-haired like him. Her hair was thin where he was bald, pale skin showing where a yellowed lace cap did not cover her head. Ardeth had expected an invalid in a bath chair; Miss Spotford could walk well enough, although she dragged her leg when she stood to examine her caller more closely. One of her eyes was cloudy, but the other was a piercing blue. Her face was scarred down one cheek and through the corner of her mouth, and her neck was held at an awkward angle, as though it had frozen there after whatever accident had befallen the woman.

  “I am sorry to intrude, madam,” he began.

  “I know you,” she interrupted. Her voice was a hoarse rasp, likely from damage to her throat.

  “That is impossible,” he said. “I have not been here before this week and I understand you have not left the Keep in decades.”

  “I know you,” she insisted, fixing him with her stare that was half-blue and half seeing something else altogether. “When I was buried under those rocks, you came. I begged to die; the pain was so great. I begged, and you would not help.”

  No, it could not be. The system did not work that way. No Reaper arrived if the name was not on his list; no Reaper left without what he came for. Ardeth ignored Effe and the boy, Peter, as a once-in-a-lifetime—or Death’s-time—occurrence. That meant the woman was not ailing; she was insane. No wonder Spotford kept her in this tower. “I assure you, no one ever saw me,” he said. “That is, I have not been in England before.”

  “And now you think I tried to kill your countess.”

  Her bluntness was as shocking as her claims to have been denied by a Final Ferryman. “No, I merely come to you for information.”

  “I have none. I know nothing about poisons or I would have taken some years ago to end this hell of my life.”

  Ardeth looked around. The rooms were airy and comfortable, with a beautiful view, if one accepted the ruins as picturesque rather than a sign of time’s passage. Beneath the window was a private terrace that led down to a walled garden. “I cannot know what pain you suffer, but your surroundings are pleasant.”

  “What do you know? I cannot go to the village, not even to church.”

  “I do not see why not.” A keeper could follow her about to make sure she did not wander off.

  “What, le
t people see me like this?” She rubbed at the scar that pulled her mouth down on one side. “Sometimes I drool. Should I have them say I am the local freak, knocked in the cradle?”

  “You could wear a veil.”

  “The pain is too much.”

  Others suffered and went on with their lives, but he did not say so. “Laudanum might help.”

  “Bah. Then I have terrible dreams. Of you.”

  “No. That is only your imagination and dread.”

  She pointed one trembling finger at him. “I know you, I say. You came back, didn’t you, to torture me more?”

  “I came back to England, yes. For my soul.”

  Her finger touched his chest, right where he had been killed the first time. “You. Have. No. Soul.”

  He would get no answers out of the woman, and nothing else he wished to hear, so he left her presence to find Miss Spotford’s brother.

  Spotty did not think the woman was a danger to anyone. She was full of talk, he said, weird, rambling speeches everyone ignored. She hardly left her tower, so how could she care who owned or ran the Keep? Frieda might be missing a few cogs in her cogitations, but she played a decent hand of piquet when her mood was right.

  “It was the accident that did it.” He pointed in the direction of the old Keep. “No one’s fault, because she wasn’t supposed to play there, but she lay trapped under a pile of rubble for hours before someone found her. Never been the same since.”

  Ardeth found a woman to act as companion to Miss Spotford. One of his tenants had left his widow with nothing but debts and no way to pay the rent. She was strong and willing to do anything rather than face the poorhouse. Live at the Keep with nothing to do but watch a batty old woman and her sneaky maid? And get paid for it, to boot? She moved in that afternoon.

  Ardeth left it to Spotford to explain to his sister. “Say it is for her health, to help her get out more. But she must not be alone, like a spider in her web, nursing imaginary grievances. I do not know if she hired Snell or if someone else did. He might have acted on his own, then stolen the money. I will find out, believe me.”